


The Perfect Medium

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John finds themselves wrapped up in another unusual serial killer case. But this time he's painting London red, just for Sherlock. (NOTE: This is before Season 3 and between Season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Vanessa?"

The front door swung open and a petite woman stood there shivering in the harsh rain. She hugged her worn raincoat, but it did nothing to shield her from the piercing pain. The stings against her swollen cheek were painful enough, and she didn't need to have two places stinging at the same time. Vanessa could feel the rain traveling down her bare legs and into her beat up sneakers. There was an unpleasant sensation of squishiness between her toes, and it felt like her shoes were filled with mud. Her limp hair partially covered her view of Thomas. An absolute mess she must look like to him. She didn't know if she should turn around or somehow merge into the darkness.

"Vanessa," he gently said from the illuminated doorway, "come in, you're completely soaked." His hand reached out to her shoulder and she felt how firm it was. Vanessa stopped shivering and let him guide her inside the house.

The warm light swept over her, and she could see stairs leading to a second floor and a continuous narrow hall behind. Frames of all sorts filled the spaces of the blank walls. Each had a vivid painting depicting beautiful scenery or abstract nonsense, yet they were all beautiful. One painting at the far end caught her eye. It was simple and plain compared to the others. A lone red apple rolled on its side and was sliced through the middle. Instead of the usual tender white insides, the apple's crimson skin covered it. If she didn't look hard enough, she could've mistaken the painting for two of the small deformed apples she once brought home as a child. Worms were buried deep in its core when her mum cut one open, all wriggly and slimy. Her face was priceless.

Fingers stroked her right cheek and disrupted her thoughts. She refocused her eyes on Thomas who was examining her closely. His gaze traced the bruised patterns formed on her pasty skin. He reached out to the coat and began to unbutton. Vanessa flinched back.

"I... uh... can do it myself," she stammered. He nodded and smiled as he watched her fumbled with her coat.

"I'll get a towel and some ice," Thomas said as he walked up the stairs and pointed to the left at an open archway," you can wait in the living room."

Finally getting the rag off, she hung it on a hook next to some hats. Vanessa glanced down and frowned. She was standing in a puddle, and it was the disgusting gray color made after mopping the floor. It didn't complement the pastel tiles. Kicking them off quickly and setting them on the shoe rack, she stepped onto the wooden floor and examined her feet. Good, only a few cuts, she thought.

Her feet stuck to the floor with every step. Looking at the painting of the apple again, she wondered where the illusion of depth was coming from. Was it the extreme detail of darkness to the shadow? Or the oddly shaped dents in the peel? The golden frame had a label under it titled The Ideal Person. Art was strange.

To her surprise, the living room had frames covering the walls too. Some were sketches in ink or graphite, oil pastel paintings, charcoal, and many other mediums. There was a sculpture that looked like some sort of bird in a corner - it was a bit unsettling. The rain noisily pattered on the drawn window and had no intention of letting up. She sat on the edge of the beige sofa with a large coffee table in front. Trinkets neatly covered a small corner, and she picked up a miniature glass elephant. It had little bubbles that were frozen in place. Her bitten nail traced the grooves of the curled trunk. Vanessa noticed her hand was shaky and immediately put the elephant back.

Thomas walked in carrying a towel and wrapped it around Vanessa's small frame. It was fluffy and she unconsciously snuggled into the material.

"Be right back, the ice is in the kitchen."

She watched his back as he entered the other room. The tight tee stretched on his broad shoulders and the ends of his sweat pants skimmed off the rug. Clattering of cabinet doors and pots echoed in the still air. He came back and sat next to her on the cushion. Handing the ice to Vanessa, he took note of her clothing. She promptly placed the bag to her swollen cheek.

"Thanks," she mumbled. Avoiding his worried face, her green eyes shifted back and forth.

"Nice pajamas."

"Huh?" She blinked. Not exactly what she thought he was going to say.

"Not the perfect outfit for this weather," he eyed her pink polka dot shorts.

"Oh, er, right."

Condensation formed and dripped down her angular jawline. Using his thumb, Thomas wiped it and kept his hand there.

"Why are you here?" he asked bluntly.

"It's Chris..."

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

He let out a sigh. "Seeing how swollen your cheek is, he must've punched you." His thumb was sliding along her jaw line, forcing her eyes to lock on him.

"Why don't you call the-"

"I can't!" Vanessa blurted out, but soon lowered her gaze. Thomas became silent and listened.

"He was never like this. I dated him for four years and it was only this year he began to take his anger out on me. His mom is going through chemo therapy and- "

"And you think that's a good excuse for him to abuse you?" he cut in. She bit her tongue. He continued, "At this rate, you're going to end up in the hospital. Maybe he'll use something other than his bare fists."

Vanessa's eyes slightly widened in horror. She knew he was right. He brushed back her black hair and slowly twirled a strand.

"I know this isn't my place to say any of that, but I can't bare to see a delicate flower's petals plucked by a brute," he muttered on. She peeked at his face, which was expressionless, but his eyes gleamed.

"Your black hair," he said as he lifted a lock to her neck, "it contrasts with your pure white skin so beautifully. A true work of mother nature."

It was extremely cheesy, but she blushed anyway and gripped the towel tighter. Hoping to alleviate the growing tension, she glanced over at the far wall. "You have a lot of paintings," she pointed out.

"I'm glad you noticed," he chuckled.

"Do you like art?"

"I should hope so, since I painted them."

Vanessa turned to look at Thomas, who had a smirk on his face. "All of them?"

"There are a few I didn't paint; I used other mediums like that charcoal one." He pointed to a rough drawing of a lotus flower. She was in complete disbelief. How did he have this much free time?

"I don't limit myself to just paper," he smiled proudly as he picked up the elephant she was holding earlier, "I also created this." He leaned in closer to her, and she backed off from the sudden closure. His face was an inch away from hers, and his eyes scanned her lips.

"Cute, right?"

Before she could say anything, he put the glass figure in her hand and abruptly got up.

"Want tea?"

"Erm..."

"I'll put the kettle on."

She sat there motionless with the elephant in her hand. There was a high-pitched cry from the kitchen and the stove shut off with a snap. He came back shortly with a tea set and some biscuits.

"Thank you," she said as he poured the hot liquid into the porcelain teacup. They slowly sipped their tea in silence. Vanessa focused on the glass leaf and mentally counted the number of edges it had. She was positive that Thomas was staring at her in the corner of his eye, and she shivered.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"Not really..." she responded and lost track. She didn't feel like recounting.

"Thinking about heading back?"

She realized she was staring at the leaf for an unhealthy amount of time. "I don't think I can, I ran out as fast as I could."

"Would you like to stay here for the night?" Thomas had a warm smile painted on his face, but Vanessa bit her bottom lip. Her parents were back in the countryside and her friends were out of town for an entire week. Did she really have any other choice? Thunder rumbled behind the closed curtains.

"If it won't trouble you, but..." she began to say, but he jumped up.

"I have a spare mattress in the basement. Can you help me bring it up?"

She motioned her hands towards the couch. "Why can't I just sleep here?"

Thomas raised his eyebrow. "Deny a lady of a comfy bed? Don't think so."

He beckoned her to follow him back into the hallway and she followed. Reaching the end of the hall, he stood by a staircase leading down. Gesturing with his hand and said in his best French accent, "Ladies first."

She peered down in the dark skeptically.

"Oh, here," he said and reached for the light switch. There was a wooden door labeled "Art Supplies." Vanessa noticed three identical red frames leading down the steps.

"I keep a spare bed down there when I'm working on a large project."

"That's quite lazy of you," she commented as she descended down the steps. They creaked beneath her feet as if they were groaning in pain. A heavy waft of chemicals tingled her nose, and she coughed.

"Sorry about that, paint tends to smell a bit strong after a couple of years." It did smell like paint plus a bit of rust. Does he do metalwork too? she wondered.

As they passed the frames, she quickly scanned them and found they were news articles. She expected them to be old vintage clippings, but instead they were recent news and had been reported on the telly frequently. They were about finding mutilated -

Thomas's long arms reached the handle and opened the door. The odor was overpowering of metal and he ushered her down the steps. The dim light made its way into the dark room. Vanessa felt his firm hand grip the back of her neck.

"Don't fall and break your neck now," he whispered in her ear venomously, "it'll create more hassle for me."

She had no time to question what he was doing or saying. Her frightened eyes were ready to pop out in shock and she dug her nails into the towel. What she saw in the room, a glimpse of it, made her want to puke her tea out. Vanessa stumbled back in horror and felt a solid wall pressed against her back.

"How do you like your bed? It was made just for the centerpiece." His breath trickled down the nape of her neck. Before she could turn around, a sharp sting was felt in her collar bone. Vanessa blacked out.

oOo

The car door slammed. Lestrade rushed to the scene with Sally running behind. Constables tried to clear the people away, yelling at the top of their lungs as they taped the perimeter of the park. The pair stopped dead in their tracks both their stomachs churned. She turned her head away with her hand over her mouth.

"Oh God... another one," he breathes out as he stared at the figure in front of him. A glossy pale body of a female was cut clean in half, and the torso was placed in a mini meadow of flowers. The flowers were all white lilies splattered with dark speckles of red. Her cleaned heart was skewered with a thin rod and stuck into the base of her opened neck, and the base of her head was nestled in the hole where her heart used to be. Her arms were raised and the hands created a rigid finger rib-cage for the misplaced heart. The woman's head had wavy jet-black hair that covered half of her face, and tears were painted on her bruised cheek. Dismembered legs were placed side by side, with their feet kicking out, beneath the torso.

"We need the freak," Sally sputtered.


	2. Chapter 2

Beep! Beep! Beep!

John's fist pounded the top of the blaring alarm clock.

"Shut up..." he mumbled sleepily as he sat up. The neon red digits blinked "7:00 A.M." as if it wasn't alarming enough. He stretched out in his bed with his arms raised to the ceiling, but suddenly he grit his teeth.

Dammit neck, he scolded in his mind. Massaging below his jaw in furious circles, he heaved a sigh. He can't be getting that old. Sunlight streamed in through the cracks of the blinds, creating horizontal bars evenly in his room. A ray hit his face and he turned his head the other way, facing the left corner of his room. The corner that belonged to his flatmate. Stacks of data from past experiments that have long since been input into that "hardware" of his crowded the small space.

There's no point of keeping them, but it's a friendly reminder that he lives with a sociopath who needed to know what temperature it takes for an eyeball to explode it's jelly insides out. John threw out the jar with leftover eyeballs afterwards. And the microwave. Fun times of cleaning the kitchen were had that day.

He shook his head and grinned at a memory most people would find disturbing. Holding his neck, the pain subsided and he flopped his checkered covers over. John opened the blinds, letting the morning sun fully enter his bedroom. The sky was a clear faded blue with no cloud to be seen.

So that's what beautiful weather looks like, he joked to himself. The streets below were damp with rain and he could hear the splashes of puddles as cars drove through them. A siren whirred and a flash of yellow and blue raced down the street. John stretched one last time, but carefully, made his bed, and went downstairs.

Sherlock was perched by the windowsill near the couch like an owl. He was crouched down on the ledge with his knees pressed against his gray tee. His blue satin robe hung loosely on his slim figure and onto the floor. John lumbered into the living room to go to the bathroom but paused. The ex-army doctor looked at the mess of books scattered beneath the music stand, then to his eccentric friend draped in the window's laced curtain like a veil.

"Morning," said John, not questioning the motives behind whatever Sherlock is doing.

"Good morning," his flatmate mumbled under his breath. His lips were between the triangle formed with his hands when touched at the fingertips. As expected, his silver eyes shifted side to side.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Thinking," replied Sherlock blandly and glanced at John briefly. "You had another crick in your neck seeing how you're slightly tilting your head to one side and the other has a circular pink spot."

Typical Sherlock.

"Yeah," he responded and rubbed his neck unknowingly. By the armchairs, he noticed the round table had a tea set.

"Did Ms. Hudson come by?" John asked as he walked over to the tray. A cup has already been poured but it seems like it hasn't been touched. It's a bit early for her to make tea in their flat.

"Clearly, don't ask questions you already know the answers to John," the detective mumbled again with the same flat tone. After living with Sherlock for months, he could what mood he's in depending on how snarky his comments were on a scale from "Evil Eye" to "I'm Going to Reveal Your Darkest Secrets in Five Seconds." He was definitely "Grumpy."

"Right..." he said rolling his hazel eyes, "I got work."

"Work starts for you at nine."

"Not if we're going to buy a new microwave," John quipped as he stepped into the bathroom, "and I'm the one who can legally go outside."

Sherlock frowned at the small jab and looked at his ankle. A black ankle monitor was strapped on, a homing device for individuals under house arrest. He didn't mind being labeled as a criminal, but it restricted him to his flat. How infuriating it was for the past three weeks, on top of the boredom there was an interesting case that has everyone on edge. Photographs of gruesome mutilated bodies with overly vivid descriptions were plastered all over the front of newspapers and mentioned every five minutes on the telly. It's not like he couldn't bypass the simple alarm system built in the device, in fact, he has done it several times. But he couldn't go near crime scenes, something about his character is recognizable in crowds. Bottom line is: Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, is bored out of his mind.

Sighing, he smushed his nose on the window. Raindrops slowly slid down the glass pane. There has been a fourth one now, seeing how it was Monday and a police car whizzed by early in the morning. A text from Lestrade will be on its way. Better yet, he'll burst in and beg Sherlock to help solve the case that their simple minds can't handle. The detective grinned.

He could hear the shower's faucet turn off.

"John, pass me my phone," commanded Sherlock and he held out his hand. The shorter man had his usual pinstriped bathrobe wrapped around him.

"Where is it?"

"Fridge."

John had a confused look on his face. Sure enough, the phone was mixed within a box of eggs, and there was a bottle of hand lotion.

"Hand lotion and phones doesn't go in the fridge," he said and placed the phone in the opened hand.

"Duly noted." The phone read no new messages.

John felt a sulky aura emitting from the living room as he put bread in the toaster. He opened the cupboard labeled "Food Only!' and frowned. There was no can of instant coffee to be seen. The clock with burnt marks and tiny cracks ticked noisily in the corner and John glanced at it. There wasn't much time he decided, and settled for milk.

"Do you want breakfast?" he called out.

"No," Sherlock grumbled as he texted. John thought his pouty flatmate looked like a troll with a silly bushy head of hair.

Four must be your favorite number.

\- SH

Sent.

He knew how to get under the inspector's skin.

John munched on his toast with strawberry jam. Flipping a newspaper to the front cover, his nose scrunched up in disgust. It featured the same serial killer case. Way to ruin a man's appetite.

"Have you read the news lately Sherlock?"

"About the police's incompetence? Of course, it's on the news every day, hard to miss it. Honestly, if they know they can't solve a case on their own, they should just call me in already instead waiting for more dead bodies to show up. Is this their way of justifying themselves? I don't understand how idiots think."

He chuckled softly and took a sip. Someone's getting antsy.

The doctor had finished his breakfast and changed out of his sleepwear. He smoothed his ashy hair and straightened his dress shirt. Grabbing his padded coat off the sofa, he headed out, but stopped in the doorway.

"I'm going to be back in the afternoon, don't burn anything to get out of house arrest again," John ordered.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John interrupted.

"Or explode anything."

He left, leaving the sociopath to his antics. Getting tired of staring out the window, Sherlock flung himself across the sofa. Across the room the tea set was still on the round table. Using his piercing stare, he believed he could heat up the teapot with his brilliant mind. He would heat it quickly until the ceramic started cracking. Eventually it'll reach its maximum capacity of heat and explode into pieces. The detective calculated how many pieces it will break off after deducting the weakest spots of the ceramic. It wouldn't explode all at once, but what if he continuously applied heat, using the stove? Sherlock was just bored enough to try the mini experiment. But John. He would be annoyed and clean the mess himself. Sherlock trashed the train of thought into his "recycle bin." He laid still, staring at the blank ceiling. Maybe he should put the drugs to good use he stashed away in his sku-

Ding!

That was his phone.

Cavendish Square Garden. Don't think you're off the hook for climbing the London Eye. John told me you cracked the ankle monitor five times so get here ASAP.

The corners of Sherlock's lips curled up. He ripped the device off his ankle and threw it in the fireplace like a frisbee.

"Yes!" he exclaimed in delight and bounced about. "John! We're on the case!"

Silence.

"Oh for god's sakes!" Sherlock groaned. He picked up his phone, but hesitated. The detective always did wonder what the surgery looked like.

oOo

"Good morning," John greeted as he clocked in. He received other good mornings from co-workers as he passed by.

"John, your assistant is already in," one of the secretaries informed him.

"Assistant?"

"The one I told you about last week," she pointed out.

"Oh, right, um," he stuttered, "who is my assistant?"

She clicked her tongue. "Devin, he'll be shadowing you for the next month."

He nodded and went into his office. A young man was shuffling papers at his desk and writing on a clipboard. He looked up to the door and smiled.

"Hello Dr. Watson," he beamed and raised his hand, "I'm Devin, I'm going to be working with you for a while." The young man was tall and slender with slick blonde hair. His blue eyes were shielded by his thick rimmed glasses. He was wearing the typical doctor white coat, something John doesn't like wearing himself.

John took his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Would you like some coffee?" There was a cup holder that held two cups of coffee.

"Yeah actually, thank you," John thanked and took one from his hands. He took a sip as his assistant was preparing the medical tools.

"Have you finished med school?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, I'm doing the general residency here for the meantime." John smiled behind the cup. This brought back memories of him and Mike.

"Your first patient is coming in at 8:30," Devin read off the clipboard.

"Okay."

John booted up the computer and it whirred to life. It was an older model, not that it bothered him.

"How long were you a GP for?" the young man asked.

"I was an army doctor for the most part, so not long," he answered.

"Army doctor? What war- Jesus Christ!" Devin jumped. John swiftly turned around. An even taller man stood behind the surprised assistant. He wore a trench coat with a turned up collar and a navy patterned scarf. His dark curls nearly brushed Devin's forehead and he stared daggers into the poor man's soul.

The assistant backed away from the intimidating pair of eyes.

John rubbed his temples. "Sherlock, why are you here? You're not supposed to leave the flat, hence house arrest."

"We have a new case, I came to fetch you," he said and continued to stare.

"Who are you...?"

"My name was just mentioned, learn to listen. Let's go John."

John looked at the door of the office then to his partner. "How'd you get in here?"

Sherlock headed towards the window, which was wide opened. Oh.

Before he climbed out, he gave the blonde a quick look."You were a terrible student and often cut classes, you have father issues, a fashionista, and is allergic to cats. Good morning."

He left Devin gawking at the window with his mouth opened.

"Sorry about that," John apologized as he opened the door, "tell the ladies I'm taking my lunch early."


End file.
